


Between Shakespeare's 21

by awesomecookies



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: AUTHOR AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst, College student Okumura Eiji, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Muses, Neighbors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Writer AU, author Ash Lynx
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27489151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomecookies/pseuds/awesomecookies
Summary: “The fuck is this dude listening to an audiobook of Prayer X for?!”He must have said that louder than he needed to because the track thankfully paused. Unfortunately, a few seconds later, a head poked out of a window and yelled. “What is your deal with audiobooks?!”Dark eyes were now staring at him, black hair, round face. It was glaring at him, half-lit by the light from his window.It absolutely caught Ash off guard, not expecting to be called out for it. First off he had nothing against it. Audiobooks were good, they were accessible, they were soothing when read properly. Second, how was he supposed to know his neighbor was at hearing range and was absolutely defensive about audiobooks? Third, it wasn’t anything about the audiobook, it was about who wrote it. Which was Ash, also read by Ash, therefore by default made him cringe.Now Ash should give a coherent response. He should, but all he could say was—“Hey, you’re stir fry kid from a while ago.”-or uninspired Pulitzer prize author, A. J. Callenreese found his muse in the strangest way possible
Relationships: Ash Lynx & Okumura Eiji, Ash Lynx & Shorter Wong, Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji, Griffin Callenreese & Ash Lynx, Max Lobo & Ash Lynx
Comments: 62
Kudos: 165





	1. As with that Muse

**Author's Note:**

> Update sunrise i said, and yet here i am with another WIP hnghhhh help me. 
> 
> i dove into this without a plan btw. I have no plot whatsoever so let's see where this takes me. I'll test out the waters a bit and see if this works out. I have to admit though, im really proud of those book titles ahhaha

A. J. Callenreese, three-time New York Bestselling, author of the books _Prayer X, Angel Eyes_ , and Pulitzer Prize winner, _New York Sense_ , was in a slump. 

A. J. Callenreese, was who the world knew. He was the award-winning, world-renowned author, celebrated by his peers, and the literary community for putting a fresh style in writing while also touching contemporary American socio-political themes in a very unique perspective. He was a force to be reckoned with. He was taking command of the field so early in his career, only at the tender age of twenty-seven and he was already making millions of dollars from his words and introspection.

But that was A. J. Callenreese, and that was who the world knew.

His friends and family knew him as Ash. Ash, who was the real person behind the fame and fortune of those books, the man who screamed at himself at 3 A.M. when the words simply wouldn’t flow naturally as he wanted, and like his curses, felt hollow and lifeless. He was also the man who drank twelve cups of coffee in a single day when his editor called him to please submit his draft because the deadline was fast approaching and both of them would be fucked if he didn’t. Therefore, Ash was also the man currently in a slump, inspiration dry, and used up to ever write another book.

He’s only been in the game for so long, he was still twenty-six when New York Sense became best selling after getting that published. Who would have thought it would win him a Pulitzer? He was hit by this story he needed to tell, and then went and done and wrote and wrote as if his life depended on it, words on paper flew across the laptop screen, fingers tapping on the keys to make book after book. Why on earth did he exhaust himself so quickly?

In retrospect, he should have seen this coming. At some point, he was going to crash and burn. He’s never been in a slump before, see. Sure he had his fair share of writer’s blocks. Who didn’t? There were times when the words were just as drier than Shorter’s attempt at making a moist chocolate cake (which was saying something), or when you wash the plate and you accidentally touch wet food and you make a full-body shudder at how disgusting it was. They sound like sandpaper and gravel against each other, irritating and offensive.

But this feeling, this was no Shorter’s attempt in baking, this was no disgust over doing chores. This was no sandpaper on gravel. This was something else entirely. If he wasn’t a loss for words, he could describe the feeling. He couldn’t exactly grasp it. He wasn’t the best at showing emotion, but he could be eloquent on paper. He could describe feelings, express emotions, create scenarios that hit close to home.

The fact that he couldn’t even write it out felt like he had his wings clipped.

It was just empty. Like if you just bought a large plate of fries and you swore to your big brother you would eat it together, but he needed to do something and the plate of fries was right in front of you and you think, _ah surely it wouldn’t hurt to take a little_? And you end up taking one more just because you weren’t able to taste it properly, and then you take one more, and then one more, promising no more. And then you tell yourself, _ah yeah this will be the last one_ , but as you look at the plate there’s nothing left but sad cheese powder and salt so you panic for half a second just as your brother comes back from whatever it was he was called to, and then you hang your head in shame for not leaving him any fries.

Your older brother would then look at you with disappointed eyes, which somehow hurt more than him scolding you. 

Oddly specific analogy. He couldn't even make proper metaphors at this point. But you get what he meant. He was in a slump, and he was licking at salt and cheese powder for any ounce of inspiration as if fries would just magically appear out of nowhere. That was what the blank white page of the screen and the blinking cursor felt. It was mocking him. Horrendously.

“Fuck.” Ash finally swore out loud. His phone vibrated and blasted that cursed ringtone he was starting to hate. The ID caller said it was Max, and he really wasn’t in the mood to talk to him. But he’s already ignored his emails and his calls, so there was no more escaping this. On the topic of fries though, he hadn’t been able to eat breakfast yet. He checked the time on his phone where a big 2:08 P.M. glared at him. Make that lunch then.

“What’s up old man?” Ash didn’t exactly bark at the phone, he didn’t but it was close to it.

“Hey kiddo, no need to be so hostile.” The voice chuckled from the other side of the line. Ash gritted his teeth. “I’m sure you know why I called.”

Ash sighed. “I’m telling you Max, I’m trying but I’ve got nothing.” Jesus, it’s only been a few months. Did he really need to make another book? He’s tried all that he could for inspiration. Damn it. What else do they want? Does he need to squeeze more problems from this godforsaken country and bleed it into paper?

“And what I’m saying is, a draft would be nice. You promised them. It doesn’t need to be New York Sense tier, just make it A. J. Callenreese worthy.”

Ash snorted. What was A. J. Callenreese worthy anyway?

“I’ll call you back in a week.” Max sighed from the other side, and he had this tone like Ash was being such a brat. He probably was, but you couldn’t just shit out words you know? When it didn’t want to happen, words didn’t happen.

“Make it two weeks.”

“A week.” Max huffed. “You have seven days. Email me the first few chapters Saturday next week.”

Shit was it already Saturday? How long was he moping around in his apartment?

“Alright.” He conceded.

“And about that tour—“

“Yeah yeah, we’ll talk about it later. I have to write. Bye.” Ash ended the call and tossed the phone to his bed. Wonderful, just wonderful. He needed to bullshit a plot and an interesting protagonist in less than a week and cram it all. What was he? In college?

It’s not like he didn’t have anything in mind. He had a loose plot and a vague character he had in his mind for months now. But it was all so vague, so bland. It was missing something. It was hollow, like the bread in that bakery that Ash didn’t even like but was the nearest to his apartment so he ends up buying lots from—oh for goodness sake, he should stop making metaphors out of food.

Maybe he just needed a breath of fresh air. There was nothing to eat in here anyway, so maybe a skip right to Chang Dai would be good. It’ll help him think. It will help him…with whatever. He just knew it’ll be way better than moping around in this dull room with the plain white walls of his apartment. God, the the landlord couldn’t have picked a warm color for the walls?

He picked a pen and his notebook, and stuffed it in his pocket. His phone, keys, wallet came next. He’ll take a few hours off for lunch. He grabbed his jacket and off he went out.

* * *

“I was worried you finally died in a ditch or something. Haven’t seen your face in almost two weeks.”

Had it really been that long?

Ash frowned at Shorter. “I was sure I stopped by a couple of days ago. You know, when you told me you wanted me to tutor Sing for his exams?” He said as he wolfed down a steamed bun. God, he was hungry.

“When was the last time you ate?” Shorter gave him that look. That specific look he couldn’t describe for the life of him. It was just that look that made him Shorter, something between being scolding and caring, but in a big brotherly way that Ash didn’t understand. Just _that._

Oh great, how eloquent of him.

“Dunno.” Ash said after he swallowed. He swiped the glass of cola and washed down his meal. “Been writing all this time.” By writing he meant, thinking about writing, which meant moping in his apartment, which also meant bingeing Netflix and funny cat videos on the internet while also eyeing the blank document of his laptop after he told himself one last episode of The Great British Bake Off, which of course was a damn lie.

“You ever thought of getting laid for inspiration?” Shorter rested his hand on his chin with a waggle on his eyebrows that suggested nothing good.

At this point Ash was desperate, but he wasn’t that desperate. He just gave Shorter this long-suffering look with raised brows, complete with a grimace. Ash had patented the unimpressed look, if you search up the dictionary, his face would be there as a picture of an example.

“It’s not that big a deal.” He said, but the words were distant. “It’s just a rut, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll get over it.” And he said this a hundred times before. He’s always managed to pull himself out before, but now…

“What about going back to where you found inspiration from your other books?” Shorter tapped the table, drumming his hands. He never really could stay still. “The latest book—the New York whatsit?”

“New York Sense.” Ash supplied. He shrugged, the words were the same ones he repeated to Max. He was asked this hundred of times by now. He knew the answer but was still so lost. “I wanted to talk about the 80’s era of gangs, street warfare, drugs, sex,” His eyes slid to the other people in the restaurant, to the kid on the side with his mothers, to the teens giggling at the back, the rowdy men in a corner, and the boy staring at his laptop, contemplative. “I wanted to talk about the tragedy of a young death, the ephemerality of life, what it meant to be a queer man back then, the struggles, the drama.” Ash sighed. All of these were a scripted response. “Basically I want to bitch about Reagan, if you will.”

Shorter snorted. “Your bitching won you an award.”

“Apparently. It was a very good bitching.” Ash smirked. “Angel Eyes was a coming of age story. It’s about kids in juvie. It was new. It was about finding your place in this world, this very strange world that was obsessed with activism, of moral righteousness. It’s about sexuality, maturity, growing up, youth, identity.” And then he shrugged. “And of course it was gay which is probably why it sold a lot.”

“Ah yes, ‘Someone finally wrote something that was not about a sad gay man who dies in the end’.” Shorter cackled. “Gotta feed the gays.”

Ash snickered. Funny he said that when in New York Sense did exactly that. “Prayer X was…” he sighed, trailing away as he thought about that book. “It was early. I’m surprised it got published honestly.”

“What’s the problem with it?”

Ash gave a long-suffering sigh. Yes Ash, what was the problem with it? Well to be honest there was so much. He had a complicated relationship with that book. Sure it got him to start his career. But when Ash read it again, it felt so…crass, so rough. It was obvious that he was just starting. He knew a hundred ways to improve it.

But it was in the past. He couldn’t touch it anymore, like how he couldn’t change things in his past.

“It’s—I just don’t feel it like the rest.” Ash shrugged. “Doesn’t vibe with me.”

Shorter guffawed. “You wrote it though?”

“Exactly.” Ash snapped. “I wrote it, so I know how pretentious it was. I know how inconsistent the writing was. I know." Ash rubbed his forehead. "It's--this isn't helping me at all. I'm nowhere near finding inspiration at all."

"Alright man, just trying to help." Shorter glanced at his phone. "I'm about to go back to work anyway." He stood up the chair which scraped against the tiled floor. "See you soon."

"Yeah, I'll see you soon." Ash sighed, the half-eaten buns didn't look so appetizing anymore. He might just take it to go. He lingered in the restaurant for a while, taking in the buzz of people, letting the noise fill him in. Maybe this was what he needed, not the noise specifically, but people. He hasn't really seen enough. It's almost like he forgot how to make them. The characters he wrote were often flat, often so dull, so unrealistic. 

Maybe he needed a muse. Not necessarily a person, but something, god he wanted something to pull him out of this godforsaken slump! 

He scribbled words on the notepad. Stared at the people around the place. Scratched those words. Stared back at the people. Scratched some more words. At this point he gave up on writing and crumpled the paper, staring at the people full time. 

The parents were starting to usher the kid who burst into a cry for who knows what. The sound was shrill and sharp and grating, much like the words Ash was trying to produce. The rowdy men were opening fortune cookies and snickering among themselves before taking more from the bowl. The teens were...on their phones, passing the screen to another before exhaling and then going back to their screen.

And then there's the boy who was now shoveling rice and vegetables into his mouth with his chopsticks while still typing at the laptop frantically. Must be a student. 

Ash must say he looked amusing at the very least. He was multitasking, the poor thing. Ash had to suppress a chuckle. He went back to writing, occasionally looking up at the boy to see what he was up to now. 

At some point though, the boy's phone shrieked with what looked like an alarm. He gasped comically in panic before cursing and shoving everything into his bad, and the remaining stir fry into his mouth before dashing off. 

Ash snickered. Poor guy. But at the very least he managed to amuse Ash into writing something. 

* * *

By the time he packed up, the skies were already turning dark, and he ordered himself some take out given to him by Nadia. Shorter's older sister was gentle and serious unlike him who was brash and chaotic. She sent him off with extra moon cakes in the bag as a treat.

Ash thought of her as his own sister at this point now. 

All the same, Ash walked back to his apartment, to-go box in hand, deep in thought about what to write next. He managed to dredge out a simple intro. It was shit, let's be honest, but it was something. 

He got inside his building and the elevator dinged opened just as the door next to his closed. 

Huh. Did he already have a neighbor? Was he really stuck at home that long? So maybe Ash did need to go out more and reconnect to society. He couldn't actually write about people without, well, looking and talking to people. Maybe if he just went out in public places more, he'll absorb personalities via social osmosis and actually bleed it to paper.

Or screen. Whichever.

Anyway, after a quick dinner and a short trip to the shower, he brewed himself coffee before sitting in his chair to work. 

Roughly eight hours had passed since he sat here in the morning and...

He still got nothing. 

Well not exactly nothing, but it was a pathetic two pages of dialogue about a disaster of a character. Literally and figuratively. 

"They're like onions..." Ash said through gritted teeth. He should stop grinding them if he wanted to keep them till he's aged. He imagined it would be inconvenient without teeth. "Onions have layers. Characters have layers." That was such a Shorter thing to say. Ash hated it. 

That was it. It was so stale. God. It lacked something! It lacked life or whatever cheesy shit you wanted to call it. 

"Oh, what the fuck is that?" Ash growled. He needed to remind himself. New neighbor. Meaning, there was someone living next to him now, meaning stuff happening on the other side of his wall. Therefore, there will be noise from the other side. Great, just want he needed. 

Should he complain? He probably couldn’t complain. Just don’t have obscenely loud sex and all will be fine. Ash plugged earphones on his laptop and drowned out the noise. He needed to work.

So maybe he needed a new place to write, something with people around. Coffees shops? He felt so cliché right now. Do published authors even really go to coffee shops to write? Jesus, what was he doing? They probably go in some vacation or private property off the country or what not. Ash was not going back to Cape Cod, never mind that he wrote the first half of Prayer X when he went back to visit Griff. Besides, that felt like a very different kind of cliché. He grew up to become a city boy, can’t go back to the dirt and the fields for inspiration. Besides, he didn’t think he’d ever find it there.

Parks? He was not in the mood to sit in an uncomfortable bench without tables. He was not looking forward to the stiff neck and the wrist ache. Might be worth a try later though.

Or he could just walk around.

He didn’t want to walk around.

Jesus he needed to do something. Maybe he needed to tune into the news, get depressed or terribly angry about some issue or whatnot. Maybe he’ll listen to some politician spew nonsense, then he could fantasize about killing said politician and write that daydream down into a bestselling. It’s what he did to write New York Sense and Angel Eyes. A course in political science ought to do that to you, add a smug know it all professor. Basically those two books were his personal rants. How on earth did anyone possibly read it and think, _oh yes how eloquent, let’s give this bugger an award and raise the fucking stakes?_ Jesus.

If he said that out loud, people would think he was ungrateful.

Oh god what was that godawful noise anyway? What was that? Why was his neighbor playing something at this hour? It was…

Ash glanced at the clock.

How was it still 10:30 P.M.?

Ash grumbled, closing his laptop shut, running a hand through his hair. Okay fresh air. He just needed to take his thoughts out of this. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. He was going to take a breather. Not really in the mood to go out, Ash sat on his fire escape, cup of coffee on hand. The one thing he liked about Cape Cod at least, was how he could see the stars out without all the light pollution of this goddamned city. It was what they used to do. Griff pointed out constellations and taught Ash about their stories.

It was Griff who taught Ash the joys of reading, and it was him who made Ash want to write. In fact, Ash had always thought Griffin was the better writer among them. He was a sap though, a very mushy sap, heart in his sleeves kinda guy.

Oh well. Even if he went to Cape Cod, he wasn’t exactly welcomed there anyway. It’s not like it mattered.

Ash sighed.

Huh, his neighbor’s fire escape was filled with plants. Some of them were withered though. It didn’t look like they were doing a good job at it. Ash snickered. Poor things. Griff also liked plants and Ash had seen what a healthy cactus looked like. That was not a healthy cactus.

And that noise, what was that? Some movie? Some documentary? He knew that voice though.

“ _…It’s a long way home, Martin.’ He said while inhaling a drag of smoke from his cigarette, the embers such a stark orange glow against the grey and silver of the early morning. Martin didn’t like the smell of nicotine. It left a bad taste to him, something about the ashy scent, how invasive is was, how it stuck on you even after hours, made you reek of it, how it kept dancing on your nose anyway despite being over it._

_‘There is no home at this point.’ He said. It was not quite sadness in his tone, not quite angry, not quite furious, not quite empty--_

That’s actually familiar.

_“’But what is home Martin?’ he grinned anyway, a haunting thing. His teeth were pearly white, a contrast. They were straight and kempt. If he didn’t look so gaunt, he would have charmed a lot of women with that smile. ‘What’s that they say? Home is not a place, or a person. It’s a feeling.’_

Hold on—

_“’Sappy.’ Martin shrugged on his coat with one last snicker and walked out of the door into the grey morning where the world was on the cusp of waking and sleeping. The scent of smoke and ash haunted him. It continued to even after he was far from enough from him—“_

_Oh you had to be shitting me_.

The world was mocking him, wasn’t it? It was mocking him. It had to be. He was out here to take his mind off writing for a few minutes and here came his new neighbor, listening to an audiobook of all things, on one of his books. Which was being read by him. So his voice was actually blaring through the speaker this whole time. Jesus Christ.

“The fuck is this dude listening to an audiobook of Prayer X for?!”

He must have said that louder than he needed to because the track thankfully paused. Unfortunately, a few seconds later, a head poked out of a window and yelled. “What is your deal with audiobooks?!”

Dark eyes were now staring at him, black hair, round face. It was glaring at him, half-lit by the light from his window.

It absolutely caught Ash off guard, not expecting to be called out for it. First off he had nothing against it. Audiobooks were good, they were accessible, they were soothing when read properly. Second, how was he supposed to know his neighbor was at hearing range and was absolutely defensive about audiobooks? Third, it wasn’t anything about the audiobook, it was about who wrote it. Which was Ash, also read by Ash, therefore by default made him cringe.

Now Ash should give a coherent response. He should, but all he could say was—

“Hey, you’re stir fry kid from a while ago.” Ash marveled. And then the boy looked even more pissed. In retrospect, he would be as well.

The boy looked so gobsmacked at Ash’s exclamation. He had this big question mark all over his eyes and face. A long pause as he stared at Ash intensely before giving out a straight out. “What the fuck?” His words were laced with an accent, making the flow of his words halting and chopped, yet charmingly new to his ears despite the hostility.

“I mean—“ Ash cleared his throat. “I saw you this morning. You were eating stir fry…I think. In the Chinese restaurant. Chang Dai?”

Well now that it left his mouth, it sounded really creepy. He wasn’t a stalker damn it, but damn did he sound like one.

"I'm not stalking you!" Ash defended himself, possibly sounding offended. Wow, how did he end up sounding more offended than the other guy? Good job Aslan. "I didn't even know I had a neighbor till now." 

And then the boy blinked, one and then two. His mouth parted in a way that conveyed he was floundering for words. He had so much expression in his face with only a few movements, it was overflowing with emotion, an entire spectrum of it. It was fascinating, as well as inspiring how much he could convey in a fraction of a second. Maybe Ash fucked up that much.

“What?”

In the end he seemed to have given up, he tipped back his head and laughed. Loud, unabashed, defeated.

“This is ridiculous. The caffeine has gotten to me hasn’t it? Oh heck.” The boy laughed so hard and then he started groaning. “Oh god what am I doing with my life?”

Well, wasn’t that Ash’s question as well? Not particularly the boy’s life, mind you, but what he was doing here in the first place. Either way, the boy looked so distressed that Ash kinda almost wanted to console him. Indeed, all he wanted was to write something, and here he was in his fire escape with a near hysterical kid. 

“Er...college am I right? It’s alright kid. We all go through it.” That came out awkward. See this was why he stuck to writing.

“You can say that.” The boy snorted. “I am not a kid though, unless you are secretly sixty years old. You can call me kid then.” He ran a hand through his face. Again, the expression on his face was fascinating.

“Why, you secretly old or something?” Ash leaned against the rails, the cold seeped into his skin. The boy had half his body out the window too to talk to him. 

“Not secretly no.” The boy laugh incredulously, like he found the idea amusing, but was simply resigned to it at this point. “I am thirty years old though.”

Thirty? Damn. He was no boy. He was older than him, damn. It didn’t look like it though.

"Problem?" 

There was probably so much questions plastered in his face that it made him snap. Well Ash had a lot of questions truth be told, but he didn’t know how to say it without being offensive, or sounding offensive. Saying _no offense_ was already counterintuitive. It’s an oxymoron. So that was out of the question.

“No kidding?” was what Ash opted to say.

“What part do you not believe? That I am thirty or that I am still in college?” He arched a brow, and the emotion was just bleeding from his face, a twinkle in his eyes that could rival Ash’s own unimpressed expression.

Both? All? Ash wasn’t so sure either.

“I don’t know. I mean you could be lying.” Ash half-heartedly explained.

“And why would I do that?” He chuckled.

Ash shrugged, opting to change the topic instead. “Why are you listening to an audiobook?” _Why were you listening to an audiobook of mine?_ He doesn’t say.

“Why can’t I listen to it?” He shot back, but this time smirking as if he was proud of that snap back. Curious. He was such a curious man. Ash had never met anyone like him, granted he’s never met a lot of people.

“Interesting choice of book, that’s all.”

He scoffed. “You have something against Prayer X?”

As a matter of fact, he did. If anyone had the carte blanche to have something against it, it was him.

“I certainly have a lot but it’ll take me time to tell you all about it.” Which was ridiculous. Was he actually going to start ranting about his book to this stranger? Things he never even told his publisher and those interviewers? Jesus.

“Too bad, I have time.” He snorted, a smug grin quirked from his lips.

Ash laughed. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

“And miss my neighbor rant about my choice in audiobooks?” Sarcasm. “Not a chance.” If emotions had colors, there was probably a rainbow of colors dancing around this man, the palette would be very pretty, shifting, fluid. Fascinating at every change.

“Alright then, for starters. Let me introduce myself. I’m Aslan Jade Callenreese. But for my friends and interesting neighbors who are in college and like listening to audiobooks, they can call me Ash.”

“Complete name? Really?” The man snickered. “Well then. I am Eiji Okumura. I would shake your hand or bow but I am in a rather awkward position.” The man—Eiji—wriggled his hands to show his point. It was an awkward angle. He should just fully crawl out to the fire escape.

“You know, I said my complete name for a reason.” Ash drawled out with delight.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Go search the author of Prayer X.” The man looked skeptical this time, and maybe a little confused. There was a furrow between his eyes.

“And then you will tell me you are the author.” Eiji laughed.

Ash gave him a pointed look. Eiji’s face shifted from amused to shock, then to disbelief. He disappeared for a few seconds. Ash heard a mutter that suspiciously sounded like a curse and then his head pop right back out the window.

“This is you?!” He waved his phone at him, but the distance was too far and he couldn’t actually see what was on screen. He assumed it was what it was though. Eiji was staring at it comically, eyes shifting between him and the screen, letting it sink into reason. His nose wrinkled, but his face was not sour. It just looked like the face you would make when you walk in the hallway and see a person you think you knew but never really are sure because you were bad with faces and it would be rather awkward to say hi in case you might be wrong, so you plaster a silly half smile, half casual smirk that looked more like a grimace and stare at them until they pass you, and you make that ridiculous half nod to say you acknowledge their presence. How funny.

In Ash’s defense, he should have known the voices sounded similar at this point. They were talking for so long, he should have known. Maybe.

“I mean I read the darn thing. Didn’t it sound the same?”

“You do not sound like a depressed jerk while talking to me.” Eiji replied flatly. Ouch. Ash didn’t know if he should take that as a compliment.

“Was that what you think the character sound like?” Ash mustered a sharp laugh, not in offense, god no. Just out of curiosity.

“I am no literature major.” Eiji tilted his head with a laugh. “He just sounds like it.”

“So I’ll take that as a yes.”

He chuckled. “Yes.”

“Good to know.” Ash said as he took in the man before him. His face, his smirk, his stare. He was looking at him intensely, huge dark pools staring at him. Maybe he was just as curious about him as Ash. It was a strange circumstance among all odds. Very strange indeed, a funny coincidence.

Eiji muttered under his breath. A loud ringing came from his phone, the same from the restaurant. Ash assumed it was an alarm. He was right.

“Sorry, got to do homework.” Eiji grinned sheepishly, emotions once again shifting into something else.

“So you did have homework to do.” Ash teased.

“And I said I’ve got time,” he glanced at his phone. “Till now. Nice to meet you neighbor.” He said with a curt wave.

“Nice to meet you too.” Ash waved back as Eiji shot him a grin before going back in.

Ash remembered belatedly about his coffee which was now cold, cup still in his hand. Never mind that. It was an interesting exchange, as was Eiji an interesting man. He shook his head and went back inside, somehow finding it easier to produce words than it was this morning.


	2. Painted Beauty to His Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ash sighed. It was not the first time that he had to ask himself what he had gotten himself into this time. Just a while ago he was mourning the loss of socialization at the same time dreading the idea of human contact, and yet here he was throwing himself headfirst into a project with a stranger he barely knew. He could be a serial killer for goodness sake.
> 
> But then again, if Eiji was a serial killer and Ash somehow survived the whole ordeal, then maybe Ash would finally be able to write something in his novel. People ate up serial killer books. He would have first hand experience on the whole thing. Primary source material was difficult to come by and it would make things convenient for him. Or at the very least, it was going to make Max back off for a few more days till he recovers and finally plot a damn book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaanddd this took too long. But I lost all direction where this fic is going so I hope you enjoy the ride as I enjoy figuring out where this is actually going haha

Ash despised mornings. 

You can't trust people who woke up early by choice, was what he often told people. They were probably psychopaths, something to that degree, definitely hiding something deep inside, something probably sinister. Morning people were suspicious. Nobody loved mornings. 

There's probably some irony with hating mornings when one was named after the sunrise, but maybe that just added fuel to Ash's hate to the entire thing. Even at mid twenties, Ash couldn't wake up early to save his life. 

So his day usually started past ten in the morning, like every other self respecting person. Waking up before noon was suicide in his opinion. One would think a Pulitzer prize author would be more in control of their life, Ash wanted to scoff at that idea. 

Anyway he had less than a week to finish his draft, and it was eleven in the morning. Practically the whole day left to write.. He and Max agreed to at least three chapters--five if he was generous--plus a rough plot of the whole thing, a couple of character introductions, and maybe a short summary. The good thing about being a published award winning author was how much he could get away with these bare minimums. It was hard to build trust in the publishing industry, but he supposed flaunting some awards wasn't so bad at some point. 

Technically the first drafts were often killed and cut and shot and hung and revived so often, you wouldn't even recognize it in the final cut. It's a Frankenstein of words, thoughts, and spontaneous ideas stitched together into a monstrosity of a novel. The eloquence of a creation that did not ask to be created, and the lingering regret of the maker was often lurking in the corner of Ash's mind--but to be fair, it often did to other creators as well. But yes, the first drafts were meant to be horrible so it shouldn't kill him to make one out of the different story plots he made before. 

He had an entire document of them, different plots and ideas he wanted to try, scenes he wrote down to play with, an indulgent dialogue or two. And yet he simply wasn't feeling it right now. 

Right. He'll walk it off. That's what he planned last night anyway. He needed to buy groceries even if he didn't know how to cook. This usually either meant stocking up vegetables that'll end up dying in his crisper, or buying microwavable mac and cheese. 

Microwavable mac and cheese sounded absolutely wonderful. 

He wasn't in dire need of funds exactly. He's not well off, but he's at least not dying off in the streets and having trouble meeting ends. His books' royalties have been paying the rent and the other stuff, and he doesn't solely rely on writing--well, writing books at least--he's got other things as well, like editing, some online programming jobs as well. He actually could be a full-time programmer if he wanted to.

Maybe he could write a book about hacking and it's realistic methods, debunking all that Hollywood nonsense. He doubted anyone wanted to read the hours upon hours of what people usually considered as boring though. Didn't seem to fit his theme, though if he made a government conspiracy novel--that might sell. He had it in one of his drafts too--a mind control drug injected in the veterans of the Vietnam war, it could be a story about revenge. Some seventeen year old blond kid in the 80's fighting in gang wars and taking down the mafia. Sharpest shooter in the city. Prettiest set of green eyes and blond hair. Genius extraordinaire. Lots of literature references. Won't that be a hit?

Ash snickered. It's ridiculous. Who would want to read that? People would read it if it was gay he supposed, throw the whole heterosexual crap out the window. He was starting to think this was coming from all those times Griffin watched that old TV series called 24 and all Ash thought about while watching it was making Jack Bauer homo because it would definitely be an improvement. That man literally did not deserve all that suffering. 

Anyway if that didn't explain the slump he was on, he didn't know what else would. All his ideas were ridiculous at the moment, or he just wasn't feeling it. He felt like if he wrote them now it'd feel a lot like forcing shit out. He couldn't commit to it, feeling like it was too much work that he wasn't in the mood to tackle. Sure some might not be too ridiculous an idea, but without the soul, it's just not going to work. 

Ash sighed. He's been sighing a lot lately. He sounded like a jilted lover waiting for their partner to come back from war. How awful.

He took a quick shower, changed into something decent, collected his keys and wallet, then walked out the door. He glanced at the door next to him. 

Eiji Okumura, huh. 

Interesting man, Ash had to say. He supposed he's in his class now, what with him being a student--

"Shit!" The door slammed open and a frantic Eiji passed through, hair messy, clothes in disarray, wide eyed and in a panic. "Shit shit shit shit." He muttered the rest in Japanese. He didn't even notice Ash as he ran to the elevator, clicked on the down button, shifted his weight between his two legs in impatience, glanced at his phone, did a little squeak, and then used the stairs instead, in that exact order. How vivacious. Ash chuckled while the empty elevator just dinged open for him instead. 

They were on the eighth floor too, he hoped the guy got down alright without accident. Ash winced at that line of thought. That would probably hurt a lot. By the time he got to the first floor, he saw Eiji's fleeting figure outside the apartment's glass doors from the lobby. Guess it was a good idea to run. He whistled. Those were some fast legs. 

Ash shrugged it off. That was too lively for him this early in the morning. Most likely he was late for classes. Maybe he overslept. He needed to get lunch and get groceries though. Then it's back to writing for him.

He pushed the glass door open and left. 

-

Shorter called this routine of his as people watching, which wasn't exactly as creepy as he said it, but the name was actually accurate to what he did. He was out watching people do whatever they did in their lives, whatever it was people did. Shorter also told him once that the way he said it made it seem like he wasn't a person himself. At this point Ash was starting to think this statement was accurate as well. 

Anyway what better place to see people than the outside. Ash grabbed a to go box from Chang Dai and went to eat at the park as cliche as that sounded. Max once told him to go and touch grass after he locked himself up in his apartment for a month. To be fair, he was writing about someone locked up in a room all alone--needless to say the whole stunt worked and Max commented that the whole scene was despairingly morose on the verge of insane and hysterical. Ash had learned different ways to entertain himself while locked up for a month. Imagine the character he wrote locked up for a year in his house with no outside contact at all. It should drive you to bouts of insanity.

That aside, that's what he was doing he supposed, he was touching grass, literally and figuratively. He could write about the texture, the dried, sun-soaked smell. It was green with a tinge of yellow. It felt itchy to touch, often trodden upon, stepped on by people. So mundane, just a step above weeds. At least daffodils had petals, but both were ephemeral just the same in a way, forgettable. 

But people don't really want to read about grass, and he didn't exactly know where he would even write grass for, so he didn't know why he was thinking of all that. 

So he just ate his food in silence. It was a tiny picnic of sorts. He was gazing off the distance, chewing his steamed buns while looking at the people in the park. He watched people and made up stories about them in his head. Example: there's a couple on one of the benches. A guy and a lady, they're cheating on each other. They met a few months ago through a dating app. Later on the woman would catch the man cheating and be insulted, the man would then reveal how he knew she was cheating on him. The drama.

Here's another. There were two childhood friends on the bench across them. They're catching up after being busy from school--classes did that to each other and they go to universities from across town so they couldn't meet. They still text everyday though, that's why they're familiar with each other physically and not awkward at all. It's all good and--oh they just kissed, passionately.

Ash shrugged. So he was wrong sometimes. Or they just confessed to each other and they were mutually pining all this time--and they're close to making out. Jesus. Ash wrinkled his nose. Was that how making out actually looked like? He felt like he could write that scene better if he wanted to--make it less vulgar and more poetic. People ate that shit up, making sex into some kind of holy affair instead of the sweat and gangly limbs going in all directions, the silly, ridiculous faces one made between orgasms. Ash had his fair share of playing around. Didn't really excite him that much as he wrote the experience down, he supposed.

Anyway, there was another one. He could tell you about the kid playing catch with his brother. He could spin a story there, the older brother probably loved the younger one so much what with him probably busy. He's probably in college. The latter was just starting middle school, quite a huge age gap actually. They're playing catch--baseball actually. It made Ash's nose wrinkle. They probably have a shitty deadbeat dad, always getting mistresses half his age, a drunkard. So the older one took it upon himself to raise them all. 

The kid just tackled his brother on the ground and they both ended up as a messy heap of laughter. If the younger kid didn't mess it up, they'd have a few years together as brothers--unlike Ash. They'd be able to celebrate birthdays together, and Christmas, and New Years and--

"Ash? Woah what did the grass ever do to you?" 

Ash snapped from his train of thought. He looked at the direction of the voice that called him. 

"Sing?" He squinted at the boy hovering above him, blocking out the sunlight. Yeah that was definitely Sing. "Did you skip classes again?"

"Hey dude, it's Sunday today. No classes." Sing made a cross mark on his chest, swearing. So it was Sunday today. Wait, was it Sunday? What did Eiji run out the door in a hurry for? It would be funny if he forgot about it being a Sunday too. Ash would take note to ask, then he could tease him about it if the chance came. Here he was poking fun at his neighbor--his newly introduced neighbor with roughly twenty minutes of interaction, mind you, how little socializing had he actually done to turn to him instead?

"Where you off to?" 

"Arcade. Gonna pick Skip up. I just came from helping Nadia with the deliveries and he's still working at the bar. Nadia wasn't so comfortable with the kid working in a bar but we reassured her that Alex isn't a bad boss. She worries like that." Sing slipped his hands through his pockets. "Anyway, enough about that stuff. What's the grass done to ya? I don't think it deserves being killed off like that, even if it's dying already." 

Ash frowned at the statement. Sing sensed this confusion and nodded at his right hand which was filled with a fistful of grass. He didn't even notice he was tearing them from the ground. 

"I was..." he was pretty sure you didn't rip off grass from the ground when you were making a story. "....writing." he finished lamely. 

"Oh. It's one of those weird writer quirks that Shorter kept talking about." Sing hummed. "You should part time as a weed killer in those fancy subdivisions with the bitchy home association owners or something. I'm sure the grass there needs ripping off and you get paid for it."

"Weird writer quirks--what?" Ash huffed. 

"You know? Like that time you stared at this guy real intensely when he was eating once in Chang Dai, and the dude was trying his best not to get creeped out of it? You did this with a couple of other people too and Nadia got real concerned there. Shorter said you were writing and she just kinda dropped it." 

"Was I really?"

"Yeah dude." Sing laughed. "You gotta be careful 'bout that you know, you're going to freak out customers. Or you're going to get arrested with a couple of warrants or something. Seriously." 

Ash wanted to bury his face in his hand. Great, here he was failing to act like a normal person--again. Jesus Christ. For a person obsessed with making relatable, real life people, he was a mess in actually living what he wrote. 

"Anyway." Sing shrugged. "You wanna come or something? I'm sure Skip would like to see you."

Ash waved his hand in a dismissal. "No. No I need to write. Thank you though." This was the umpteenth time he turned down an invite for a get together. This book really had to be worth it. "Tell him I said hi."

"Sure thing." He did a little two fingered salute, very much like what he did often. It's a quirk of his that he's probably gotten from Shorter growing up. "Good luck writing. Come chat when you're in Chang Dai. Nadia is worried about you."

Ash laughed softly. "She worries about everybody." 

Sing shrugged before running off. 

Ash stared at him till he faded into the distance to the direction of the arcade. Well it was getting late and his take out box was already empty. He supposed that was a sign to get up and get going. 

It was past six in the evening when he entered his apartment. He managed to finish the first chapter, barely. It was a skeleton and a bunch of gangly half finished flesh of words and pretentious phrases. He knew how this was going. He knew the basic plot. He knew the characters if he was to write their overview in a wikipedia article, a short description and a skin deep analysis of their relationships with each other. 

The story was technically done, in the sense that it had an end, a few major plot points, and a rough beginning. It had a setting. It had a plot. It had characters. It's was basic grade school literature review. He could fill out those kid questions no problem. 

But it lacked that core theme that's usually found in his books that made them who they were--what made them...them. New York Sense was alll about rage. It was all about justice. It was rebellion. Angel Eyes was all on activism. It's about frustration. It's about confusion, growing up, finding a place in this world. Prayer X was just sad. It was found and lost. It was just grief. 

This though...it had nothing. Yet. That was important. Ash needed to find something to shove into it and give it some kind of personality. 

He supposed he still had roughly five or six days to figure it out. 

Ash shrugged off his clothes and tossed it in the hamper. His pants were filled with dried grass. He should be a functioning adult and do his laundry soon. 

Or now.

Well it's not like he was going to get anything done soon and the laundry was in dire need of getting done. His apartment needed cleaning too. The trash needed to be thrown out. The dishes...well he's been eating take out so often he didn't need to do dishes at all so at least there's that.

That's a lot of things to do. 

Ash grumbles to himself for letting it go this far. He kept making promises of doing better next time, but of course it's a lie so he wasn't going to do that anymore. He'll just take it as it goes. He dumped the clothes from the hamper on a basket and walked outside. Hopefully he had enough change, and hopefully he wouldn't need to fight for a decent washing machine when he went down.

He can't seem to shake off the thought that he forgot something though.

* * *

Life had once again disappointed him. There was someone in the apartment's designated laundromat for its tenants and Ash was not in the mood to sit awkwardly in the silence while waiting for his clothes to finish. He was keen on keeping an eye on his clothes now, one time some asshole took his still wet clothes out of the machine and didn't even put it in the dryer. They just left it sopping wet on the bench. 

Never again. Ash was going to sit his ass in here and threaten anyone who was going to touch his laundry. Nobody was going to grab his dirty boxers and get away with it alive again.

"Hey!" 

Hold on, maybe life wasn't so keen in disappointing him after all because the man in the laundromat was none other than his good neighbor. The one and only Eiji Okumura, wearing earphones attached to his phone, nodding his head as he rhythmically started sewing a piece of garment. An old tin can of biscuits repurposed as a sewing kit was sitting next to him. He looked like a grandma because of it. Ash didn't exactly have a grandma for reference but that seemed like the stereotype wasn't it? 

The guy took off a bud from his ear, looking up at him, squinting. It took him awhile before finally reacting, the look of confusion in his face was quite expressive. 

"Oh!" He said in recognition, almost gesticulating with his exclamation even though he's only sat up straighter. It was probably the face: the way his eyes widened, his lips quirking up, his brows raised from its furrowed position, or maybe it's the way he said his oh. "You are my neighbor. Room 807 right? The author--Aslan Callenreese."

"Please, Ash is fine." He waved off. "Don't call me that. Honestly, it gives me the hives. Only people at work and my old school teachers call me that." And they weren't exactly good experiences. 

"Okay then--Ash," Ooh, what an interesting spin that accent had given his name. Ashu. A double syllable instead of a single one, chopped up. Ash liked this quirk. "I see you are going to do laundry." 

"I am. And you, it's a Sunday. What were you such in a hurry for? You didn't even say hi this morning." Okay maybe that wasn't technically his business, but he's enjoying the small talk he's doing with this technically not stranger. It was simply being neighborly, that's what regular people do right? Talk. 

"Ah you were there? I didn't see you." Eiji ran a hand through his face, pushing it up to his hair. "I was late. I overslept." 

"Listened to too many audiobooks?" Ash snickered. 

"Ha ha." He rolled his eyes. The sarcasm dripped in his face with just a few movements. It was fascinating. "I was doing homework. When I finish my thesis, I will enjoy burning it." 

"Hey research isn't that bad." Ash laughed while loading his first batch of dirty laundry into the washer. Eiji made a face of displeasure, like a cat sprayed with a spritzer. His nose scrunched up and his eyes thinned more than it already was. 

"You say that when you do the thesis. And then I will laugh at you. No mercy." Eiji stuck out his tongue. 

"I'll let you know that I did finish my bachelor's thesis and it was pretty good if I say so myself, it passed by like a breeze." Ash laughed harder at the harsh Japanese the other man muttered under his breath. He didn't understand what he said, but Ash could piece it together enough to know he was probably cursing him.

"If you're so good, why not do my thesis then?" Eiji grumbled like an old man, he shook the shirt he was fixing at Ash's direction as if that would help cast a curse on him. 

"Sure why not? I'll help you with it if you need me to. What are you majoring in anyway?" Ash wasn't sure why he said that. He wasn't sure if it was because he was swept up in the moment, but when he thought about it, he didn't really mind. Somehow. It couldn't be that bad. 

"Business management." Eiji revealed.

"Oh fuck no." It was now Ash's turn to make a face. Not business. The maths weren't a problem. It's all about the capitalism. Eiji apparently found his reaction funny enough because he wheezed out a cackle.

"I don't like it anymore than you do. Don't look at me like it's the worst." He huffed, pausing to reconsider. "Okay maybe it is the worst." 

"Why are you taking it if you don't like it then?" Ash must say he was intrigued. He didn't like listening to stories as much as making his own, but Eiji was comfortable enough to talk to. He didn't mind.

"Ah long story." Eiji obviously was unwilling to share, the way he subconsciously curled into himself, so Ash let it drop for now. He'll put a pin on that for the future though. "Anyway, it's not all that bad. Capitalism technically helps create jobs."

"Is that what they tell you in business school?" Ash was rolling up his metaphorical sleeves. He could argue about this all night (instead of writing his book or course, and all the other chores he needed to do on top of that).

"It is what they tell us in business school." Eiji solemnly nodded in agreement. "Don't argue with me about this because I am only saying what I'm studying from the expensive textbooks they needed us to buy. I don't actually like business either and I can see you getting ready to verbally kick my ass." Damn. Eiji was laughing at his disappointed look. "I know when I am going to lose an argument you know?" 

"Sad." Ash clicked his tongue. "I was ready to fight you on that." 

Eiji simply gave him a bright triumphant grin. 

"Anyway. Do you have classes on Sunday? Cause…" 

"Nope. Classes can go to hell." He looked mischievously, the twinkle in his eyes would tell you that he's mostly up to no good. He's got a playful side in him. "But it's work so I technically can't be late." 

"Oh work? Cool, cool what do you do?" 

He shrugged. "Lots of things here and there. I barista at Sundays. I work as an assistant photographer at a friend's place most of the time. Sometimes I wait tables too. Other times I cover a bartending shift in the summer." 

"All that on top of your classes?" Ash whistled. Mad respect for the guy. That's a lot of commitments.

"Gotta hussle for the degree." Eiji chucked. Ash realized belatedly that on top of his accented choppy English, Eiji's speech was also peppered with a couple of strange American slang as well as a strange blend of this New Yorker's accent. He must have stayed in this city long enough to acculturate. And yet Eiji claimed not to like his major. What a strange set of conflicting statements.

"Alright. I will help you with your thesis after all." Ash finally decided. This was obviously because he genuinely wanted to help (as strange as that was. Shorter would laugh at him. Volunteering to help some near stranger? What was he an altruist?) and not because he was trying to procrastinate on his own tasks. He meant that to be sarcastic. All this was just him stalling his work, let's be honest. 

Eiji looked surprised. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. So expressive. He really looked like the guy who wore his heart out in his sleeves, wearing his emotions plainly for everyone to see. Everything he does was simply so sincere, it was making Ash tingle in awe. It made his hand itch for some inexplicable reason. He wanted to do something but he didn't know what.

"You do not have to. I can't pay you for it. I'm a broke college student." Eiji said sheepishly. "Student loans and stuff. Plus rent and all the other things. Capitalism am I right?" He laughed, poking fun at the previous inside joke. 

"You don't need to pay." Ash offered. "Think of it as me paying you back for insulting your audiobook." 

"Doesn't sound fair." Eiji raised a brow. 

"It doesn't need to be." Ash explained, but it was obvious as well that Eiji didn't look so satisfied with this answer so he added. "You're helping me with my work anyway. I'm in a bit of a writer's block and I think trying out different things might get me back on track. Who knows? Maybe working with you will sucker punch me with inspiration." 

Eiji looked a little convinced at least, or was on the way of getting convinced. He still looked a little uneasy about the idea, but Ash wasn't technically lying. He was in a rut and he was hoping getting into a different project would, if not break the block, at least make him less guilty for not doing what he was supposed to do. It's all about the false sense of productivity. He was damn tired of looking at other people, touching grass and all that shit. 

"Alright. But I'll still find a way to return the favor one way or another." He told him. Ash was fine with that. He was totally fine with that. 

"Great. You can come to my room whenever you want to start." He said. "Just knock. I'll probably answer when I'm not sleeping." 

"Okay." He stood up and gathered his clothes from the dryer. Guess he was done already. "Wait." He yanked the earphones from the jack of his phone and slid it towards Ash. "Can you put in your number?" 

He glanced at the screen where he was listening to yet again his audiobook. The title stared back at Ash and it seemed like he just picked up where he left off last night and continued the story. Ash raised a teasing brie at Eiji, who rolled his eyes at him. He must have forgotten. Ash didn't miss the slight tinge of pink dusting his cheeks though. 

Ash decided not to comment on it and added his contact instead. Eiji took his phone back, tapped out a message and Ash's own phone buzzed from the sent message. 

"There." He said. "If it is not too much though, can we do it tonight?" 

Oh. That's pretty quick. 

"Miss me too soon?" Ash laughed.

"Nah." Eiji shook his head. "Deadline of the first chapter and second chapter is tomorrow and I barely reached the statement of the problem. I'm not even sure if what I'm doing is correct." 

Ash blinked. "The deadline is tomorrow." 

Eiji nodded solemnly. "Yep. No kidding. I was planning on cramming it the whole evening. Why else am I doing laundry and fixing my torn up shirt? I'm avoiding responsibility." 

Ah well they have that in common then. That's literally what Ash was doing. He felt a little called out. Just a little. It was a really good thing he decided to offer his help then. 

Ash chuckled at how ridiculous they were. 

"Sure. Just meet me up in my apartment an hour later. Let me finish the laundry first."

"Or you can just text me when you're done." Eiji waved his phone at him, the other hand holding his basket of dry clothes. His half-mended shirt sat on top of the pile, the biscuit tin sewing kit beneath it. "You have my number." 

"Alright. I'll text you." He told him. "See you."

Eiji left with a wave of his hand. He used his foot to push the door open before shimmying through the small crack of the doorway. Ash would have offered him help but he shook his head, murmuring a soft and stubborn I got this even though he definitely looked like he was struggling. He's either too stubborn or prideful, but he did manage without further accident so Ash simply smiled at his retreating figure before he finally left the laundromat, on his way up to his own apartment.

Ash sighed. It was not the first time that he had to ask himself what he had gotten himself into this time. Just a while ago he was mourning the loss of socialization at the same time dreading the idea of human contact, and yet here he was throwing himself headfirst into a project with a stranger he barely knew. He could be a serial killer for goodness sake.

But then again, if Eiji was a serial killer and Ash somehow survived the whole ordeal, then maybe Ash would finally be able to write something in his novel. People ate up serial killer books. He would have first hand experience on the whole thing. Primary source material was difficult to come by and it would make things convenient for him. Or at the very least, it was going to make Max back off for a few more days till he recovers and finally plot a damn book.

It was sorta fool proof. Sort of. Ash didn't have anything to lose at this point. He was desperate. He would take inspiration if it shat on top of him like pigeons in the sky, or in this case--a fascinating foreign neighbor in his last years of college.

Ash gathered his clothes and loaded them to the dryer while the next load of laundry took their place in the washing machine this time. Yep. This was going to be a long night. 


End file.
